


the highway to happiness

by spicyjarvis



Series: the ineffable idiots [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angel/Demon Relationship, Aziraphale is Bad at Feelings, Based on a Tumblr Post, Crowley is a good husband, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotions, Gabriel is an asshole, Gabriel mentioned - Freeform, I use capitals in the story, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Just not in the summary or title, M/M, Mild Aziraphale whump, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Protective Crowley, Sad Aziraphale (Good Omens), Soft Aziraphale (Good Omens), This is pretty fucking gay, Tumblr Prompt, gay shit, ineffable dumbasses, soft as shit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-27
Updated: 2019-06-27
Packaged: 2020-05-20 22:17:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19385689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spicyjarvis/pseuds/spicyjarvis
Summary: “gabriel… he came to visit the bookshop earlier.”crowley’s hands tighten around the steering wheel and he glares hard into the sweeping darkness ahead of the bentley, but he ultimately says nothing; it’s silent encouragement for aziraphale to continue.“he didn’t want or need anything. he was just looking around, i think. except… he said some things. to me. i guess... his words sort of stuck with me for the remainder of the day.” aziraphale looks down at his feet. “it’s a little silly, dear, i know.”





	the highway to happiness

**Author's Note:**

> go check out my good friend @Vee_is_typing ..... she's an exceptional writer and has a really fab good omens fic she just released!! thanks for being yourself, evie, you stupid bitch!!!!

 

 

 

It’s not very hard to realise when Aziraphale is upset about something - the angel’s positive, upbeat personality is always so present in every interaction and so Crowley can always identify when he isn’t himself just by the way he goes about his day. 

 

It’s the little things, really - Aziraphale won’t start conversations with either Crowley or customers unless he really has to, and most of the replies he supplies in aforementioned conversations are short and with little detail. He’ll sort shelves slowly, he won’t comment on how delicious their lunches together are, and he won’t scold Crowley for being a bastard on a daily basis as he usually would.

 

Directly enquiring about the issue is not an option; Aziraphale will not talk about his emotions if he thinks it is burdening the other party, which is what he always thinks anyway. Besides, it’s awfully out of character for Crowley to do so anyway. Being a therapist is being more helpful and supportive than he can manage. He prefers to fix Aziraphale’s low mood with other, more _Crowley-style_ means.

 

When he’s pulling up outside of the bookshop in the Bentley and leaning on the horn at two in the morning, it doesn’t take Aziraphale long to approach him at the driver’s window. He’s clad in silky pyjamas with his thin beige jacket barely pulled over his shoulders to keep away the bitter chill of the nighttime, white hair out of sorts atop his head, brows pressed into a deep frown. “You’ll wake people up, Crowley.”

 

“They’ll get over it.” The demon offers him a charming, toothy grin. “Hop in, angel.”

 

Aziraphale obliges as he usually does. He buckles his seatbelt as soon as he slides into the passenger seat and then rubs at his tired eyes. “What are you doing here?” he murmurs sleepily. Odd - he didn’t think the angel actually slept.

 

“I,” Crowley begins accelerating into the street, “am cheering you up.”

 

The angel says nothing, but the knowing smile that flashes across his face doesn't go unnoticed by Crowley.

 

Peaceful acoustics replaces the loud, upbeat tunes that usually blare from the Bentley’s speakers, just because Crowley knows that it will be nicer for Aziraphale’s ears. The gentle music, along with the ambient hum of the wheels against the tarmac underneath them, is enough to fill the comfortable silence between them for a good amount of the ride under the stars.

 

They don’t need to interact to enjoy each other’s company, they’ve discovered over the years. Sometimes they will exist in the same room but do completely different things and it’s warming to know that they have that fluidity in their relationship.

 

Crowley loves that about Aziraphale. He doesn’t know whether it’s just his own natural social confidence or if it’s something about the angel but he’s never felt awkward or weird or incorrect about interacting with him, not even when they’d barely known each other. Aziraphale is a comfortable being to exist alongside.

 

The demon glances at his partner as they pass under the rhythmic flashes of motorway lighting that pools the car in a dull orange haze and then pulls it back to complete darkness every other second. He’s definitely not asleep, but his eyes are shut, a content smile gracing his lips as he loses himself to the welcome arms of the music. Crowley aches with adoration and he doesn’t know how to feel about that.

 

Oh, Satan, how this angel has made him so soft.

 

Another peaceful ten minutes sees the demon changing lanes to pass another road user, and Aziraphale’s voice says into the silence, “Crowley.”

 

“Hm?”

 

“Thank you,” the angel continues, “for this.”

 

Crowley looks over to him. “I thought you could do with losing your head in a drive on the motorway for a bit.”

 

The car is quiet again save for the whine of the tires and the hum of the radio. Crowley is not accustomed to a drive that isn’t alight with his more theatrical playlist and so finds himself drumming his fingers absently against the polished leather steering wheel. Out of the corner of his eye, he notices Aziraphale wiping at his brow, and dials down the temperature by a couple of degrees (it’s difficult to identify when it’s too hot when you’re a cold-blooded being).

 

“Gabriel… he came to visit the bookshop earlier.”

 

Crowley’s hands tighten around the steering wheel and he glares hard into the sweeping darkness ahead of the Bentley, but he ultimately says nothing; it’s silent encouragement for Aziraphale to continue.

 

“He didn’t want or need anything. He was just looking around, I think. Except… he said some things. To me. I guess... his words sort of stuck with me for the remainder of the day.” Aziraphale looks down at his feet. “It’s a little silly, dear, I know.”

 

After a short moment of reflection, Crowley says, “what did he say?”

 

Aziraphale hesitates and it makes a little part of Crowley crumble. “He told me I’d gone soft,” he begins. “He said that I wasn’t like any of the other angels in heaven. He said… he said I’m an outcast compared to them.” Anxiously, the angel rubs his palms together. “I thought I was a good angel, you know, dear. But I suppose that I am not.”

 

For but a moment, Crowley says absolutely nothing. Aziraphale can probably sense the anger building up inside of him, the fury burning up inside of his chest as he drives. Slowly, carefully, he pulls the Bentley to a stop and switches off the ignition in the emergency lane.

 

“Zira.” He turns to face his angel and places his hands firmly onto his shoulders. “Zira, listen to me when I say this, and listen to me closely. No, you’re not like those other angels - you, my love, are so much better, in every way. If there’s one thing that I have learned over the time that we’ve been together in this world, it’s that those motherfuckers upstairs are massive assholes. They call themselves angels but there are some moments where I think they could be just as bad as _my_ crowd downstairs.

 

“You, my angel, are the softest, kindest, warmest, most angelic being I have ever had the honour to get to know. Just because the other angels think you’re a bit too funky for them is irrelevant, you know? Those boring motherfuckers don’t know what they’re missing without you up there to spice it up. You are, dare I say it, the light of my fucking life, Zira. Do you know how out of character it is for me to be saying that? Do you?”

 

There is moisture welling up in the corners of Aziraphale’s ocean grey eyes. “You… you really think so?”

 

Crowley rips off his sunglasses, throws them somewhere towards the backseat and envelopes his partner’s lips in a kiss that is enough to sum everything up, there and then. Under the dull light of the motorway lamp across the road and the velvet night sky, with something acoustic playing from the radio, Crowley doesn’t think he’s ever felt contentment quite like this.

 

“Mmf,” Aziraphale mumbles into his lips, “your tongue really is something else, dear.”

 

“Comes with being a snake,” Crowley jokes as he pulls away.

 

Aziraphale laughs and Crowley starts the Bentley again.

 

They drive until the velvet night sky is painted by stunning stretches of reds, pinks and purples; until they see the sun cast golden pools of light across the rolling, green hills of the English countryside. They sing along to Queen too loudly until their throats ache. They laugh until their cheeks ache and they kiss until they’re panting for oxygen that they don’t even need in the first place.

 

With his best friend and the love of his life at his side, with good music blasting through the speakers and a flat, quiet road ahead, Crowley thinks that this, right here, is the very definition of pure, unbridled happiness.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> *sunglasses emoji*
> 
> [my discord server](https://discord.gg/SgGFvDC)   
>  [my Tumblr blog](https://spicyjarvis.tumblr.com/)


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